


Into the Fire

by DreamingNeonBlack



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Awkwardness, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingNeonBlack/pseuds/DreamingNeonBlack
Summary: In which two sleep-deprived, intimacy-starved, self-preservation-lacking cyborgs try to take care of each other while flirting awkwardly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely sure where I'm going with this, but it came from the feels I got on my first DXMD playthrough. For now, it's just UST and weirdness. I apologize for any fails, but it will never leave my hard drive if I keep editing it. I figure, a small fandom is a forgiving one..? So here.

One day, not too long after starting at TF29 in Prague, Adam Jensen finds himself in need of…maintenance. Some minor repairs he can do himself, but it’s nothing like tinkering with clocks. An amateur at best, he’s mostly out of his depth when it comes to electronics. Stupidly, access also becomes an issue when you’re at least 50% cybernetic; working at odd angles with mirrors can get dicey, and it’s not like Pritchard is around to grudgingly help him out with that.

He hasn’t given it much thought since his stint in Detroit after escaping Facility 451, despite the cosmetic surface damage and the myriad little glitches that are slowly piling up. For one, there hasn’t been time, and being a legally dead fugitive has definitely been instrumental in managing expectations. What’s a little lag or abnormal sensory feedback when there are people literally falling apart on the streets for lack of neuropozyne? When he loses sensation and control in three of the fingers on his right hand, except for some annoying feedback, Adam resigns himself to needing someone else’s expertise. It occurs to him, then, that finding a source of aftermarket parts and know-how should have been part of setting up upon arrival. Of course, it got put off along with unpacking the cardboard boxes full of things he doesn’t care enough to do anymore.

Alex ends up hooking him up with a sketchier-sounding option than what he’s used to. Generally speaking, you can’t just walk into a LIMB clinic anymore for these things. _Thanks, Mr. Darrow. Did us a big favor there._ Still, the important thing is that Alex thinks the man is trustworthy. The front is intriguing. Nothing here in Prague ever seems to be what it is, but the outside is telling, much like the social masks people make for themselves. The Time Machine is an independent book shop that sells some less-common publications, much of it old and obscure. Owner must be highly educated or a bit of a snob, with some quaint tastes. Or they’re just old and retired from their biotech job after the incident. As good a reason as any to throw in the towel.

It turns out that his initial suppositions are mostly wrong. The book shop, while spacious, currently appears to have no employees today, except for a scruffy young man, mid-to-late 20s, dressed like a punk and sporting mismatched cybernetic arms. _You’re 36. Can’t be many years difference._ It’s not the years that matter. The kid - hypothetical shop owner - is still absorbed in whatever he’s typing feverishly about. He could be some kind of university dropout, or maybe a technician, much less employable in the wake of 2027. Jensen makes a fumbling attempt to talk to him.

  
“Can I help you, sir?” the young man asks in accented English. A Czech native, then, or from a neighboring country. Something must have given Jensen away as a foreigner, it being almost definitely his admittedly embarrassing accent. Should be putting more effort into learning the language, especially when his job involves gathering intelligence.

  
\---

  
It is an uneventful day at the Time Machine. Nobody is interested in fascinating antique literature or even in letting him tinker with their body parts for real, actual money that you buy things with. That would is the best part of his job. Except for the creepy murderous-looking thug types that occasionally walk in, but hey. They need a thing done, and no one else is going to do it because nobody likes a cyborg anymore. Also, he has a Super Secret Sewer Dungeon which, with the camouflage and the surveillance equipment, is way safer than what he had before that time the police showed up and broke his face trying to get some answers about some black market dealings he knew absolutely nothing about. Well, mostly. Anyway. He wasn’t hurting anyone. Unnecessary is what it was.

  
Sure, would have been nice to be a real engineer but the university sucked anyway - pretentious academic sackwipes and their theory, what a snoozefest - and also, nobody likes a cyborg anymore. Really quite bothersome and uncool, how judgmental people are these days. Least he gets to wear whatever he wants and listen to good music and flip off any _wankers_ , like the English like to call them. Funny word. Wanker.

  
And ooh, his day just got more interesting. Someone scary, but very, very hot just walked in. An angular, trench-coat-and-sunglasses type. Definitely corporate, or government; atypical of his usual clientele. He moves in a fairly deadly, calculated way. _Oh shit, I hope he’s not a cop._ Definitely augmented, though, his gait is indicative of someone mostly powered by servos. You hang around other augs long enough, and it’s really easy to tell. Probably not a cop, but definitely works for The Man. The more rude people in the aug community might call him a wrench.

  
Scary Guy clears his throat and tries to say something but totally cocks it up with his American accent. The image dissolves. Let’s switch to English then, and be professionally courteous.

  
“Can I help you, sir?”

  
Scary Guy hesitates, and then comes closer.

  
“Are you Václav Koller?” Shit, asking by name. This could go one of two or three ways.

  
“Well, that depends on who’s asking. I guess you’re not here for books?”

  
“Guess not. Heard you might offer other services.” Heh. Well, that could be taken the wrong way. Oh. Ohhh, right, he forgot. There was an email conversation. Jensen, with the military-grade hardware. Not many of those. Václav figures PMC types usually get their work done in-house. He catches himself and starts acting like a functional human. Better make sure he’s the right guy and not some other intimidating bastard who will probably shoot him in the head.

  
“Maybe. Your name?”

  
“Adam Jensen.”

  
Phew. Okay.

  
“Right, yes. You needed some tech support, I believe?”

  
“Yeah, that.” Scary Guy deadpans.

  
He could still be police, then; but like, higher up or undercover detective or some crap. I hope he’s not here to ask me stuff. Very _Noir_ , though, that idea. Bet he smokes too, with that voice, while making cynical observations about the shit state of things.

  
Also, you could cut yourself on those cheekbones and the shiny techy bits that definitely match from an aesthetic point of view. Unless, of course, you have bitchin’, heavily-modded cyber arms that are completely laceration-proof. Huh, built-in sunglasses. Uncommon with his clients, but very cool if you’re into that sort of thing. Sarif Industries made these for a little while, but not everyone has the facial features to pull them off. This dude can for sure, though.

  
“Okay,” - Dramatic pause for effect – “Step in to my office.”

  
\---  
  
The “office”, it turns out, is a hole in the ground that doubles as living quarters and a somewhat grimy laboratory that gives Jensen some bodily shivers that are best left unexamined. Interesting décor. The disembodied mechanical limbs hanging from the ceiling are a bit much. They definitely don’t help with the malaise, but neither does the questionable ceiling art.

  
However, this place is a mess, exactly unlike the corporate labs typically used to conduct unethical experiments. Everything about this is amateur. Could still pass for a harvester-type setup. There is a chair and some old blood stains near a drain in the floor…Very obvious implications. This could be problematic in a number of ways. His mind is treacherous and brings him to Hengsha, among other unpleasant places.

  
Still, the kid is a little too wide-eyed and silly-looking to be a hardened criminal who dismembers people for a living. Unless they want dismembering, though this place looks too unhygienic for any actual surgery. It appears to be more of a repair shop, which is what he needs. Do some people still think it’s a good idea to chop off perfectly good limbs in this new climate of intolerance? _Didn’t see that coming, huh boss?_   It’s all water under the bridge now, and the idea of David Sarif waking from a coma to a changed world is more relatable than he would like to admit.

  
“So, what was this about? Problems, routine maintenance or upgrades?” Koller asks, rolling up sleeves and slipping on a somewhat dirty cross between a lab coat and punk rock vest. One of his hands has three fingers. The reason behind this escapes him; Jensen rather likes having five on each hand, even if some of them don’t work right now.

  
“I’m pretty sure this qualifies as a problem,” he says, sheepishly holding up the offending dead metal fingers and letting them do the electrical thing. “Kind of need them to do anything.” The last is a feeble attempt to dispel the awkwardness. Pretty soon, most augs will have to all be savvy enough about this because there won’t be anyone around to fix them.

  
Koller smiles brightly and it’s kind of endearing.

  
“Oh my god. Are you embarrassed? Like 99% of people get someone else to do this for them. Except me, because I'm awesome that way. It’s literally what I’m here for.”

  
_No, not the least bit._ Ten minutes later, the kid is absorbed in Jensen’s hardware and the exchange is a distant memory. There is something oddly intimate about this. Koller’s hair keeps falling over his face comes perilously close to brushing against Jensen’s mostly-dead metal fingers. Irrelevant, of course. Then he speaks up, no doubt attempting to make conversation.

  
“So do you like, punch brick walls and crawl through scrap heaps? Insulation is stripped to hell, and I’ve never seen someone manage to store so many bits of shrapnel in an actuator the size of a needle,” he comments, holding something mangled and barely identifiable.

  
Jensen smirks.

  
“I find ways. It’s actually sewers and ducts most of the time.”

  
It turns out that the lack of fingers on Koller’s right hand does indeed have a purpose. Blowtorch. Of course.

  
When Koller catches him looking, he smiles knowingly.

  
“It’s good for metal shows, too.”

  
Nice.

  
\---

  
Right, this dude says he crawls through ventilation systems like it’s a thing that normal, well-dressed, non-sewer-dwelling people do. He could just be fucking with a gullible person. Václav redirects the conversation towards the familiar.

  
“So…I’m seeing some serious brand loyalty here. Good taste though, always liked how Sarif designs just kind of blend with the human form, rather than work against it.”

  
“Yeah, well. I worked at their HQ in Detroit. Say what you want about Sarif, but the benefits package was great.” A note of wry, self-deprecating amusement in that. Hmm. Another short, because the insulation problem isn’t localized. Probably needs to be re-applied in this entire section.

  
“Still, that’s some high-grade tech; looks like you went all out...”

  
“Worked directly under the CEO. Only the best for David Sarif’s chief of security, right?” There is an edge to his voice something there that might be interesting to press, but not now. Later. Also, wow. David Sarif.

  
“Yeah, makes sense. Cool job. Guess you don’t work there anymore?” It’s a real shame Sarif went under. TYM being the only legit choice these days, eww. Best go with custom or black-market legacy stuff.

  
“Pretty cool, until people try to set things on fire.” He’s probably not even kidding…maybe? There some stuff in the news a couple of years ago, about something like an exploding research lab. This guy is awesome even if he’s lying about half this stuff.

  
\---

  
At some point, Jensen writes and has Václav order some spare parts – the critical components that are both essential to function and most subject to failure. It is a little paranoid and a bit expensive, but also pretty smart. Whoever it is that he works for now, they must be footing at least part of the bill. Most people don’t bother, but who is he to question? People have asked for weirder things.

  
It makes a lot more sense the first time he shows up with bullets – plural bullets – lodged where they really shouldn’t be. He’s seen this before, but it’s not a common occurrence. Thank fuck for body armor, but Mr. Death Wish here should really be more careful if he’s planning to come back at all. It’s one thing to trash your shiny toys and another to actually wreck yourself. It’s a good conversation starter, though.

  
This happens a few more times and he comes to learn that there is usually some wild story behind the damage, and he generally gets what he assumes is a redacted (it's Interpol, so whatever) and more entertaining version of it. Václav returns the favour by giving Jensen the popular science version of the cool projects he’s working on, some of them only peripherally aug-related.

  
Maybe one day he can convince Jensen to be his lab rat for some of these, but not anytime soon. The man is skittish as hell when it comes to getting worked on. It’s like working with one of the stray cats he feeds, but it generally goes alright if he describes what he’s doing and doesn’t give in to the temptation to just run his hands over things.

  
So he could almost describe what they have as being on friendly terms, if there weren’t damn horny butterfly feelings involved, making him act all stupid-like. Maybe one day he will be stupid enough to ask Jensen out, but he must surely have an insanely hot girlfriend who probably shoots people for a living.

  
\---  
  
Past experience has taught Jensen that getting close to people doesn’t lead anywhere good – past experience meaning: running headfirst into the same old wall, over and over, surviving only due to a metal-reinforced skull. _Thanks, Sarif. No hard feelings. Bullet hole did need fixing._

  
Other human beings seem to end up doing one of two things: revealing themselves to be hypocrites and liars, or coming back as corpses and being added to the macabre mural on the backs of his eyelids. He’s running out of room on that nightmarish flesh canvas at an alarming pace, and he really would like to have a good night’s sleep, the weight of his failures or the dark void of unsettling coma memory gaps notwithstanding. _Don’t even go there._

  
This serves to explain the sterile existence he’s found himself in. He’s not stupid; he’s noticed the way people stare at the office like he’s an alien. Or, y’know, another damn clank. Bought his way to achieve what normal humans work for, and now he’s a health hazard, right? A special synthetic snowflake, showed up out of nowhere and now insists on stirring the shit with his loose cannon ways. It’s not all bad, whiteboard graffiti aside. The nerdier co-workers don’t judge, but you can’t let them know too much or they'll use those brains and that will be the end of his career as a double agent. Aria is alright, even if she’s going to worry herself into a nervous breakdown. Damn it, but he misses Malik – the way she could get anyone to lighten up - and even Pritchard’s caustic nagging, all bark and no bite.

  
The closest thing he’s got here to a friendship like that would be the strange thing going on between him and his mechanic. The kid is either interested or he flirts like people breathe. _Could just be imagining things because you haven’t been laid in two years._ There are other things to consider, now that life as a killing machine is a certainty.

  
(You're a ghost...a fuckin' tragedy...everything you touch...everything that touches you...dies.)

  
Václav is admittedly beautiful and when he smiles or speaks, he exudes a genuine warmth and light. Jensen would love to bathe in it, but he knows that should he approach him and make an honest human connection, he will come to extinguish that light. It’s better this way. No one is satisfied and no one gets hurt.

  
\---

  
Adam fears the worst when he comes back from the horrifying clusterfuck that is the Utulek complex. His nerves are frayed as it is because of all that awfulness and misery crammed into a compact cube of squalid pre-fab housing. _A place built just for you._ The poor bastards living on the streets outside his apartment are difficult to walk past as it is. After this fucked up mess is over and he doesn’t need fast intel, he will go out of his way find takers for all the neuropozyne he’s managed to steal today. Maybe Václav will know; he does do some pro-aug activism here and there. Could probably do proper triage, too.

  
The things Václav said about the Dvali won’t disappear, and neither will the things in the emails he read while Koller wasn’t looking. He should check up on him after he goes home, talks to Sarif about the other fucked up thing and fixes himself a stiff drink.

  
Except when he does go down the stairs leading to the Time Machine, the windows are boarded up and there are metal grates, there are temporary metal fence panels and the place still smoking from recently being...on fire. Shit! Fuck. No. He’s too late and there is nothing he can do because Václav is already a charred corpse and he’s not sure if he would rather find it or let it stay in the rubble for the cops to find in two months. _Wait. Let’s try the sewer first._

  
Jensen drops directly down the manhole. No time for ladders. Does Václav have family? He thinks about Megan’s mother. Okay, this is it. The secret door opens, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Right. The neuroplasticity calibrator. That’s what he’s there about. Of course.

  
\---

 

“Václav. Listen. I’m not messing around. I don’t know what you think about these people, but you must think this is some kind of game. Right now, we need to prioritize your personal safety or you won’t be around to help anyone.”

  
“I know what I’m dealing with. What happened this morning…must be some kind of mistake, or some fucked up power play to put me in my place. I know for a fact that Radich needs me alive, and he’s a man of his word.”

  
“I don’t care what kind of deal you had, it’s obviously not working out so well. The man’s got Russian mafia connections - he’s got resources; who’s to say he can’t find a replacement? They know your location, and your _secret lair_   might not be so secret. Can you really say that you are one hundred percent certain that no one is coming back to finish the job?”

  
“I get it, I really do…I’m going to get myself killed. But I already told you I’m not going to stop doing my job and _skip town_ , or however you say it in America…And you can’t make me. I’m here for my people…our people.”

  
_You idiot._ It really hurts to think about having to carry Václav’s shot-up corpse out of here. Yet another iteration of the same tape playing over and over. Fail spectacularly, find pools of blood and bodies slumped in corners, regret everything. Dream about it a few dozen times, replay scenarios in which he made the right decision. It’s too much. Jensen retracts his shades.

  
“…Maybe you don’t have to leave Prague just yet. It just so happens, I’m working in Dvali territory tonight. This is the code to my apartment. Zelen building, top floor, boarded up windows. Go there right now and stay there, and make sure no one sees you make your way there. I have to go back into work, so you’ll have to make yourself at home. Just for today, or until we get your Dvali problem sorted…Please.”

  
Shit. He really wasn’t planning on this and right about now, Pritchard would absolutely be making comments about the dangers of letting greasy street urchins (he’s just guessing about the epithets) into his apartment. Still. If this will make the difference…if this is the thing that will change a tiny fragment of the future for the better, this is what he will do, in a heartbeat.

  
Václav seems to acquiesce. Against his better judgment and all of his cop instincts, Adam pushes a little further and, god help his non-believer’s soul, hands him the 10 mm pistol.

  
“With any luck you won’t need to use it, but don’t hesitate if you do. I can deal with the fallout. You know how the safety works?”

  
Václav nods mutely.

  
“Hey…Václav. Thanks for humoring me.” _After all this is over_ , he thinks, _we are going to deal with that body in your sewer._

  
Václav’s eyebrows press together like he’s trying to understand something.

  
\---

  
Václav deliberates for a while. He could go on with his day, sit back down, eat some ramen and watch some cat videos or whatever until he can maybe try sleep. Or, he could listen to Jensen and be paranoid and go to his apartment, which is just new levels of weird. Okay, so maybe he spent the two hours before this hyperventilating in a corner because – holy shit, it still doesn’t feel real - those mafia fuckers came back and set everything on fire. It’s all gone, and what the fuck is he going to do? Lie low in the sewers until there are no more rats to eat?

  
_Maybe they think I’m dead?_   Yeah. That would make sense. He can deal with this. This isn’t much worse than any of the other times, except these people seem like the sort that might enjoy breaking people’s knees to prove a point, best case scenario. Shit. You’d think Radich would be a big enough name to throw around, but no. Violence and intimidation all around.

  
Jensen knows how to deal with this sort of thing. Bet his hypothetical girlfriend feels real safe in his arms. But also, Jensen the transhuman sex symbol invited him back to his place. Sort of, in an I-don’t-want-you-to-die sort of way. Except he said please with his eyes uncovered – that’s an event in itself - and looked like he was feeling actual feelings. Wait, does that mean that maybe he cares in a non-platonic way? _Nah, come on._

  
Well, why not. It can’t hurt to change location for not-dying purposes. So Václav packs up his laptop and a change of clothes, climbs out of the sewer and goes up the stone staircase and into the slightly dumpy apartment complex, all while being dutifully paranoid about watching his own back. It turns out that Jensen uncharacteristically lives behind a pile of trash; the way is partially obstructed by old kitchen cabinets and a moldy, damp couch.

  
Nice on the inside, though, even if Jensen appears to have way too many cardboard boxes. This would be a golden opportunity for snooping, but his heart is not in it. Václav sits on the couch, opens his laptop and tries to internet, but his eyelids are heavy from today’s insanity and the anxiety attack has really drained him. Maybe he can close his eyes for a bit.

  
\---

Václav becomes aware of lying on a soft surface. He must have fallen asleep. No dreams, especially not the kind involving pools of blood in his lab. This is okay. He opens his eyes and sees an unfamiliar ceiling. He’s not in his own bed. Where was he last night, again?

  
Right. Fuck, the Dvali thugs and the fucking fire. He was fearing for his life and then he went to Jensen’s apartment of all places. He’s not on the couch. Somehow, he ended up in a room, on a large mattress with a grey quilt draped over him.

  
This must mean he’s in Jensen’s bed and someone must have put him there. _Well, wire me to a toaster and call me the Machine God._ No way. He’s not living this down. Smells nice, though. He can hear muffled voices outside the closed door. The distinctive, gentle rasp that can only be Jensen’s voice, and a woman’s voice, and what must be the TV. For now, he lies there and breathes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am dissatisfied with this, but I’ve been fiddling with it forever and with the way my semester is going, I better post what I have now, even if I don't know what I'm doing. I realize, after fact-checking, that I completely messed up the timelines. So, some liberties may have been taken. Also, I have a vague idea of what does and doesn’t get Václav killed…but Adam does not. I apologize to anyone who would like this to have some proper slash already...it keeps turning into weirdness and angst-like stuff because I'm a weirdo and a sap.

The day’s shit-show is mostly over. Chikane needs to sleep a bit and do whatever to get flight-ready for London, so Jensen goes back to the apartment and passes out for a few minutes after moving about 150 pounds of sleeping Koller off the couch. He brings Alex up to speed on the progression of events.

Five minutes after that, the door to his bedroom opens with a creak and a sleepy Václav steps out and looks around furtively, as if he hasn’t yet made his very obvious presence known. His hair is in even greater disarray than usual, but he seems better rested. Not that it means much when he generally looks like he needs a week’s worth of sleep to recover from what Jensen assumes to be accumulated exhaustion.

Considering the events of the past day, it would be inhumane to stress him out, so Jensen decides to make it easy on him.

“Hey. You can come out, I don’t bite.” Well, unless...

Jensen gestures to the couch as nonchalantly as he can and gets up to turn on the tea kettle. It’s either too late or too early for coffee. Václav blinks owlishly.

“How long have I been out?”

“A few hours for sure. I lost some time, but I’m fairly confident it’s 0400, same night.”

“Shit. Sorry about the falling asleep. I do that. Umm, did you…? Won’t happen again. I’ll…go home now.” He looks mortified, and it’s not entirely clear why.

“I did invite you over. More importantly, the cops have orders to shoot everything that moves.” Especially if it’s metallic and trying to sneak around.

“Wait, did I miss something here?”

“We both did...Martial law. They’d have us believe it’s because of the riots. Personally, I’m not surprised. Curfew doesn’t get lifted until 6 AM. You’ll want to stay.”

“That’s delightful.”

“Don’t act so disappointed. I have to leave before then. TF29 can’t get enough of me; I have to ship out to London for a few days.”

“I meant the curfew,” Václav backtracks, looking slightly flustered.

“Right. Well, you can crash here…if you want. Don’t really need this place while I’m gone. Just try to lie low if you go out, don’t let anyone in.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” Jensen doesn’t mention that common decency dictates that you don’t let friends sleep under the literal burned out husk of their livelihood.

That, and disappearing for a while is still a good idea, even with what the gory death he gave Otar Botkoveli. This, he is not proud of.  It was all careful infiltration, non-lethal takedowns and tranq darts for nearly everyone in his way, but when he saw Otar walk out of that room, his brain must have shorted out. A split second later, Jensen was forearm-deep in the man’s chest cavity. It would be convenient to say that he was just human garbage, but there is no such thing.

Some people would thank him. Between a dead gangster and who the hell knows how many dead innocents and underlings – The blood trails in the sewer pipes speak for themselves -  it’s not an agonizing choice. The problem is the loss of control in favour of some animal urge to…what, protect what is his? Somehow, in that split second, “ _I won’t let you do this to him”_ turned into “ _You won’t take this from me.”_ He doesn’t like what this says about him or the feelings he has done his best to bury.

They sit on the couch with their tea in silence for a while.

\---

 “So, your Dvali problem. We should probably talk about that.”

 “Jensen, you are a buzzkill and absolutely no fun.” He doesn’t seem disappointed though. There is a goofy grin on his face, but there is something brittle about it. He’s trying real hard to keep up the normalcy. Okay.

 “Seriously, though. Radich Nikoladze probably won’t be needing you anymore; his whole operation is implicated in some pretty heavy stuff. As for Otar…Well, he won’t be doing much of anything…ever again. Still, you should probably lie low for a while, make sure they forget about you. Crime syndicates generally don’t do that, but the restructuring of their hierarchy should work in your favour.”

“Aww, next you’ll be wooing me with the severed heads of my enemies.” Is that what he got out of this ? He’s razor-sharp, though, no getting this past him. At least he cleaned the gore off the nanoblades. _Let’s play it cool._

 “Real funny, Koller. I wasn’t joking.”

Something in Václav’s facial expression cracks and his tense smile wavers. His eyes glisten feverishly. Party’s over, time for the hangover.

 “I know it’s not funny. My life’s in shambles and I probably contributed to someone being dead.” he says, and his voice cracks. This is probably about the corpse. Poor old Kamil is probably still slumped in the sewer like he’s just sad and tired.

“I hear you.”

Václav makes a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a snort.

 “If it was me, it wouldn’t be so bad. I’m the one putting my hands in the flames, so I should pay for it.” _Oh, don’t do that._

“You know that’s not how it works.” After all, nothing good ever comes from this thought pattern, even if it is intimately familiar.

“What, are you the expert here?” _You have no idea_.

“You don’t control that. He’s the one who put the bullet in his brain. Whether or not you and your activities had anything to do with it…That knowledge died with him.”

“So from now on, I just get to wonder about that when bedtime comes around.” That sums it up pretty well, actually.

Jensen says nothing. Instead, his metal fingers slip into Václav’s own and stay there. The sensation is peculiar; there are two degrees of separation between this linking of pressure and temperature sensors and natural, flesh-and-blood human contact. Still, it does not matter this time. It’s not about the corporeal matter or even the form that it takes. He tries to think of a thing to say, because talking helps people with processing these things.

“The other one, was she there? Lucina?”

“No. She took the rest of the day off when they showed up the first time...Think she’s coming back? If…there was…something to go back to.”

“I don’t know, Koller. But she’s okay. There’s that.”

“You were right. I acted like it was a game. I thought,” –his breath hitches – “I thought I was winning, being so clever, but I…I f-fucked up.”

It’s not really clear who fucked up here. There is no field guide for dealing with this, but instinct is telling him to just do what he desperately wants to do. At this point, there is no way of telling whom he is trying to console.

“Václav...come here.”

Something possesses Adam to pull him into his arms. He feels…breakable, like a small, hot-blooded animal – breathing shallowly, pulse racing like his heart might explode. The warmth of the contact feels almost foreign. He feels metal fingers digging desperately into his shoulders and back where organic meets synthetic. He gives in and strokes the back of his head where the implant meets flesh, running fingers through the short, uneven strands of hair. Something about this seems to break the floodgates and he can feel Václav’s body convulse against his own with a strained, inelegant sob that sounds like it’s being physically torn from him, and Adam can feel the echo of that ache in his own chest.

They disentangle themselves some minutes later, after a considerable wet patch has formed on Jensen’s shirt. Václav goes through about five tissues until he is composed enough to speak.

“Sorry. It’s just a bit much, y’know. Probably not what you have in mind when you bring a guy home.” He says this with a shaky smile. _Damn Koller, you’re killing me._

“Don’t be sorry.”

\---

Eventually, Jensen has to leave for his flight so that he can go shoot terrorists or protect self-important asshats, whichever one it is this time. As he’s strapping on his tactical gear, he’s doing the serious face.

“Listen. This is a somewhat high-profile case I’m on. You probably don’t want to hear this, but there’s a chance – a small chance – that I’m not coming back. So I guess if you don’t hear from me in a week, you can probably take over my lease.”

Shit, how does someone go from eye-fucking you from afar to…this, in the space of a day? This is the point in the script where the darkly brooding gentleman tells his lady friend that he can’t protect her from his deadly way of life, because cyborgs who shoot people can't have nice things. Looks like there’s a lot to talk about there.

“That’s dramatic, even for you. You do this all the time. It’s like me saying I’ll get murdered in my shop.” _Haha, see, I made a funny joke._

“Just don’t want to catch you by surprise, make you think I just left.” _Jensen, catch me at surprise is all you’ve ever done_. Might as well go for it, if it’s his last chance.  Worst that can happen is he’ll get the old " _What the fuck Koller, you’re being weird.”_

He reaches up and runs his finger along Jensen’s pale cheekbone. He can hear the sharp intake of breath. He tentatively presses his lips to Jensen’s. It’s a chaste kiss, but there is an electric warmth between them. When they break apart, he almost loses himself in the abyss of Jensen’s green-gold eyes.

“Be safe.”

__

Václav does stay, or at least he sleeps there. It’s weird as hell to be in someone else’s space for that long, but it’s also calming to be away. It’s like a really messy hotel room that has the guy you like all over it.

He writes some emails to inform people of the greatly exaggerated nature of his death. Even his mother, though he doubts that she would have been aware and it’s not like she will write back.  He calls Lucina and she gets real weepy and it’s totally weird, he ends up telling her that everything will be fine as soon as he reboots his life and whatever and he will definitely let her know when he’s up and running again. She’s going to contact Kamil’s next-of-kin, and tell them some story that doesn’t result in having to explain this to the police. He’s way more grateful than he let on because fuck, how do you even do this without making an ass of yourself? Also, all dumb-ass Václav’s fault.

Christ, he’s being such a downer. Maybe it’s got to do with couch-surfing with a guy who keeps a framed picture of a dog on his coffee table and is willing to leave his things to someone he met a few months ago. That doesn’t exactly scream “I am a well-adjusted person with a social life”, but no one is sane anymore. Václav sure as shit isn’t counting himself among the few who are. He should have shoved Jensen against the wall and had his way when he had the chance. How hard can this be, really? Hell, he should have asked him out before, when they could have had normal-person dates instead of this weird thing they have now. The thing he said about maybe dying sort of stuck, and now he’s going to be kicking himself forever if this doesn’t work out.

He goes to his lab even though the Dvali still might kill him but they have better things to do, probably. It’s like he has an overprotective inner voice now. Privately, he’s hoping he can patch things up with them because finding new suppliers is going to be the worst. Worse than scraping together the rent for a shitty new place that will never be any match for the Time Machine.

He feeds the cats and tries to clean up, packs up some of the stuff from shipping and receiving.  He’s on borrowed time because the corpse is only going to get grosser and smellier, but it kind of seems disrespectful to toss him out deeper in the sewer. He finds an old rug to sacrifice, faded and dusty, and wraps the body in it. He almost wants to put flowers or something, but that’s probably evidence. Where can he even put a dead body? Would the cops even give a shit right now? The only good aug is a dead aug, right? The whole thing is like trying to use a teaspoon to remove the seawater from a leaky lifeboat. At least they didn’t get his lab.

\---

_Jensen –_

_If I’m not here, I went down to the basement. Would love to hang out if you’re up to it._

_Call me._

That’s what the note says, written in purple ink on the back of a receipt. The handwriting is surprisingly neat, clearly belonging to a man with an organized mind despite outward appearances. He tries the infolink but gets nothing. Great. Between the events at the reception, the fragmented sleep he got in the VTOL and the mercifully short debrief at TF29, he was looking forward to an uneventful return.

He returns there to the dark and heavy sound of music, vaguely electro-industrial in nature, being blasted through the door. It’s the opposite of lying low. What is he thinking? It smells a bit like weed. Václav is sitting cross-legged on the floor with some disassembled electronics in front of him. He appears to be splitting his concentration between whatever it is that he’s doing and smoking his joint. It’s a little unsanitary.

“You’re back!” He says, looking up and smiling brightly, a feverish glint in his eyes.

“...What are you doing?”

“Trying to see if I can fit this cloaking device onto a drone.”

“You said to call, but you’re not answering.”

Václav’s expression turns uneasy, and he runs his hands through his own hair.

“Yeah…Sorry. I was working through something.”

“…Clearly. I can probably even tell what it is.” If the pile of bloody rags in the corner is anything to go by.

Václav puts out his joint.

“Where is it now?”

“Still there. I…don’t really know what to do with it, honestly. You’ve disposed of corpses, right?” That’s a little direct, but he does look and act the part now. He sighs.

“I know where the Dvali throw their dead bodies…Why don’t you clean up while I take it from here?”

“You are the best.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have the next bit partially written; still tinkering with it. That said, no set timeline for updates because of real life and stuff.


End file.
